


Search the Stars

by starboy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, punk!Castiel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-23 09:08:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6111732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starboy/pseuds/starboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>High school is a living hell, and Dean Winchester knows it.</p>
<p>That is, until the mysterious Castiel Novak transfers. And for some reason, Dean is filled with hope that maybe it could turn into heaven.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Or the one where a bullied kid and a punk become boyfriends and do fluffy things at a shitty school.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the butterfly bandito (alternately: Saviour)

**Author's Note:**

> In which Dean is Hunter High’s closeted go-to bullied kid, and Castiel is the new guy who remains a mystery.

High school is hell.

 

The workload is ridiculous, the teachers are pompous assholes, and there’s some sort of twisted hierarchy in the student body where the bleach-blonde pricks have more control than the principal and the quiet, nerdy kids are basically the red carpet under their sacred feet. Honestly, if my dad didn’t work so hard so my little brother and I could go here, I’d be out faster than you can say “PhD”.

 

I’m pretty sure my dad doesn’t know that I’ve been ditching anyway. Here’s to hoping he never finds out.

 

And it’s not because I’m going through a rebellious phase or something like that. I’d just rather not go through what happens whenever I do show up. Up until last year, that was every day, but as of maybe two weeks ago, my attendance rate is about two classes a week, less if my spidey senses start tingling.

 

It’s kind of lucky Dad never comes home, because if he did he’d beat my ass halfway to Hoboken.

  
But I still sort of wish he would at least try.

 

I’ve imagined at least a thousand different scenarios in which he manages to make it back just in time to say goodnight and sing my baby brother a lullaby, but it’s a little bit late for that. He had his chance eight years ago, but instead, he left us high and dry and left raising Sam to me. Don’t get me wrong, my little brother is the most important thing in my life, and taking care of him is maybe the only thing that’s kept me from losing my mind. But I had everything ahead of me, and he abandoned us. He could have given Sam the universe, but when he left us alone he robbed my brother of his world, and I can’t ever forgive him for that.

  
I must have told myself that a thousand times, but I can never bring myself to believe it.

 

So I force myself to go to math class sometimes, and I’ll stop by the chemistry lab every few weeks to turn in a paper. I shut up and don’t dare talk to my classmates. I keep my head down, bring my textbooks home, turn in my homework by email. I try to get out of that hellhole as quickly as I possibly can.

 

But sometimes, I don’t move fast enough, and that’s when things get tricky.

 

Like today.

 

“Looks like Winchester had the nerve to get off his fat ass and come in today,” says some kid behind me. I don’t get a look at his face, and his mocking voice is too generic to place. Feeling an uneasy flutter in my chest, I quicken my pace and pull my hood up around my face. Just seventy yards to the parking lot, and then I can get the hell out of here and pick up Sam from school and act like nothing happened.

 

Just as I step onto the concrete sidewalk, a second voice sounds to my left. “Ooh, deaf as well as stupid. I figured as much. You were always a loser anyway.” I’m startled by how close whoever the hell that was sounds, and I break out into a jog, desperate to escape them. I’m not going to let them catch me.

 

They have other plans, and as soon as I round the corner into the lot three more members of the aristocracy surround me.

 

What the hell - do they have a schedule for this crap?

 

I try to duck out of the circle they’ve trapped me in, but they block me with their arms, and I shift my weight and try to think of how I’m gonna explain this one to Sam.

 

“Dumbass. You can go home if you want, but only if you promise to never come back.”   
  
I don’t respond. I know that, even though I really want to do exactly what he says, it’s not an option. I’m treading on thin ice with my attendance, and if I skip any more classes than I already am I’m going to be in a world of hurt beyond what these guys can even imagine.

 

“It would be a lot better off if you were dead, faggot.”

 

Ouch. That one’s new. Even if it’s probably just a slur, it feels strangely personal. It can’t be personal, right? I mean, I’m not gay. Not entirely, at least. And besides, not even Sam knows that, okay, maybe sometimes I watch Dr. Sexy M.D. because, dammit, Dr. Sexy was named that way for a  _ reason _ . Calling me a faggot? It’s not meant to be accurate. Why does it hurt so much?

 

“Wouldn’t be too bad if you killed yourself. Everyone would be a lot happier without you around.”

 

I feel heat spread to my face, and my eyes start to water. Oh,  _ hell _ no. I’m not going to cry in front of these bastards. What am I, six years old? I bite my lip, trying and failing to abate my emotions, and hope they don’t notice that one stupid tear that manages to escape.

 

A voice I recognise at Nick - or, as I prefer to call him, Lucifer - speaks up next. “You know, I think we can actually do that for him.”    
  
Wait.

 

“Hey, you’re right. What do you say we get started, then?”   
  


Hold on. Wait. This can’t be happening. This has to be a joke. They’re not going to  _ kill me. _

 

I feel a sharp pain in my cheek, and look up to see Lucifer standing there, his fist daring me to think again. He recoils his hand and goes at it again, this time hitting me square in the mouth. I stumble backwards and yelp as I feel pain surging through my jaw. More tears spill over my eyelids. They’re really going to try to kill me.

 

What happens next is sort of a blur, but each second feels like it lasts forever. Whatever my body is doing, I’m not in control of it. As much as I want to strike back, I freeze. I’m only vaguely aware of my legs crumbling beneath me after a kick to the back of my knees, but I don’t remember curling up on the ground. And, come to think of it, I don’t remember them stopping, either.

 

I slowly remove my arms from around my face, surprised to see my sleeves come away bloody. It hurts to look around, and there’s a deafening ringing in my ears. I can see the shadows of my tormentors running away. Oh, wonderful. I’ve always wanted to be blamed for my own assault.

 

When I finally manage to right myself, however, the person standing in front of me definitely isn’t some teacher here to question me. He looks terrifying, if I’m honest with myself, and I feel my body shrink. Black jeans, a black shirt, black hair, frighteningly dark eyes, and - what the hell is that in his hand? - oh, no.

 

Now would be a great time for my legs to work, considering that he’s holding a freaking butterfly knife, but my limbs have turned to jello. I hide my face with my arms again and try to steady my breathing. Holy shit, this can’t happen again. This can’t freaking happen again. 

 

My arms are lifted from around my head with an unexpected delicacy, but I can’t help but wince anyway. I squint my eyes shut. I have a killer headache, and all I want is to just be back home where I don’t have to be afraid I’m going to get murdered, for Christ’s sake. I just want to be back home where my dad isn’t going to be there to force the family business down my throat and my brother will be sitting in the living room with one of the friends he actually knows how to make.

 

“Hey, are you okay? They got you pretty bad there.”

 

I’m surprised by the gentleness of the deep, gravelly voice. I open my eyes slightly, taking in the image of the same black-clad man kneeling in front of me. There’s a concerned look on his face, and his eyes, which looked black before, sparkle cobalt blue. Upon closer inspection, he’s younger than his voice would suggest - he can’t possibly be older than 18 - but the worry on his face matures him in a way that makes me want to trust him.

 

I nod slightly, as much as I’m able with the pain in my neck and throbbing head. He lets out a tense breath and raises his left hand to his chest. “I’m so glad they stopped. For a second there, I was seriously convinced they would do worse than they did.”

 

There’s something so sweet, so relaxing, about his voice. “You  _ did _ wave a knife at them,” I croak weakly, and he glances at the butterfly knife in his right hand. 

 

His breath catches, and he quickly shoves the blade into his pocket. “I’m sorry. I must have scared you.” He pauses uncertainly. “Oh, here. Let me help you.”

 

He stands, and tugs at my fingers gently, as if asking permission to help me up. Ignoring the resistance in my legs, I allow him to help pull me to my feet. My head pounds when I’m finally upright, and it takes about a second to realise that it’s not only my head. Every part of my body is sore. I lightly prod with my fingertips, grimacing every time I hit a bruise. I feel at my face delicately and groan. This is going to be really hard to explain to Sam.

 

“Are you okay?” he asks again, and I meet his eyes nervously.

 

“Yeah,” I try to say, but my voice fails, and I clear my throat to try again. “Yeah. I just have to pick up my brother in,” I glance up at the clocktower, “Ten minutes.” A sudden panic rises in my chest. “Oh, God, I have to pick up my brother in ten minutes. What am I even supposed to say? I fell? He’s not gonna believe that. Ugh, God, how the hell am I gonna explain this?”

 

“Ssh, don’t talk.” He softly places his hands on my shoulders, forcing me to look into his eyes. “Your voice sounds awful. Don’t stress it out too much.” Even though I don’t want to, I oblige because he’s probably right.

 

We just stand in silence for a second, and I try to take in his appearance through squinted eyes. He’s shorter than he looked from the ground, shorter than me, at least. His hair is short and black, and there are streaks of deep blue I somehow failed to notice earlier. The colour nearly matches his eyes exactly. 

 

Oh, wow, his  _ eyes _ .

 

I’m not sure that I’ve ever seen a purer blue.

 

I force myself to look down.

 

His black tank top fits loosely around his slender figure, and painted on it - by hand, from the looks of it - is a white triangle. I’ve seen that design around, but I’m not sure if it has significance or if it’s just a weird trend. I’m not going to ask, either.

 

His legs are so long and thin, it almost looks like he’s never used them before, and I sort of wonder how he’s even standing here. He’s not wearing tennis shoes, either, but a pair of combat boots with the steel cap on the outside.

 

The details of his outfit put my jeans and dark green sweater to shame.

 

It’s not until I look back up at his face that I realise he’s said something and that I’ve entirely missed it.

 

“Wait, what did you say?” I cringe at the hoarseness of my voice.

 

“I can drive your brother.”

 

My eyebrows furrow as much as my quickly-swelling face allows. “Hold on. What?”   
  
“I said, I can dri-”   
  


“No, no, I heard you. Just...what?” Oh, wait. That probably didn’t clarify anything. “I mean - you - you - but I - and -”

 

“Shh.”

 

An unsure panic rises up in my chest, but I don’t protest.

 

“You’re too hurt to drive. I can take your brother home.You, of course, will go to the hospital.”

 

After a quick mental debate over whether I should break my silence, I start, “But -”

“Ssh.” He takes a second to scrunch up his nose in a disapproving concern. The gesture reminds me of a cat. “I would recommend it. I wouldn’t risk driving in your condition.”

 

Psh. My ‘condition’. Makes it sound like I’m a freakin’ daisy.

 

Still, though, this is my best chance of getting Sam back home without making him worry too much.

 

Once that realisation enters my mind, there really isn’t a second thought about it.

 

Except for the immediate regret once I place my keys in his outstretched hand.

 

My brain has already started to chastise me for it.  _ Freakin’ wonderful, you’ve given away your car keys to some random goth kid. Who knows what he’ll do with them? Key Baby, is what he’ll do. You have officially given this stranger the devices to key Baby. He’s probably a murderer, for all you know. Sammy’s in the hands of a murderer. _

 

Just the thought of it makes me nauseous, and I reflexively reach to take back the keys.

 

Although he looks surprised, and a little bit confused, the boy doesn’t exactly put up a fight. Which is when I conveniently remember that he  _ did _ sort of save my life, and I hadn’t even seen him before. If Sam was in any danger he’d probably do the same. More, even, considering that I’m a 6-foot-something high schooler who should have at least some defensive skills, whereas my brother is a shrimpy dork in the sixth grade with floppy hair.

 

Oh. Right.

 

Probably not a murderer, then, at the very least.

 

With this newfound conclusion, I once again dangle my keys in front of him. They fall into his hand with a sharp jangle. I notice his eyes flicker between me and the keys, as if silently begging my permission. His face relaxes when I nod. “Alright, then. Lead me to your car.”

 

The walk back to the Impala is fast, quiet, and a little bit uncomfortable. With him teetering along after me, his eyes boring into my back, I can only imagine he’s expecting me to collapse every other step. There are a few times when I stumble, and I can’t even fathom how slowly I must be going, but at least my legs haven’t malfunctioned yet. Whoever this guy is, he must be really tolerant to be able to deal with me for this long.

 

Which prompts me to remember I haven’t learned his name.

 

I should probably do that at some point.

 

“I’m Dean,” I manage, hoping that will be enough to elicit the proper response.

 

I can practically feel him shushing me from behind. “My name is Castiel.”

 

_ Castiel _ . It sounds...harsh. Not in the same sense that ‘Dean’ does. This has a more subtle, subdued clash. It sounds like an entirely different word with each syllable, like someone cut apart a magazine and glued together all the mismatched letters. Like waves slamming into a cliff face, pulling back gently, only to throw themselves against the stone again to restate their presence.

 

I like it.

 

Castiel opens the door for me, and my immediate reaction is to swat his hand away, I can handle it myself, but the shooting pain when I sit down is silencing enough. It must show on my face, because he lets out a sad, sympathetic sigh. Somehow, it makes me feel better.

 

Sam’s eyes widen when he sees the Impala pull up to the curb with me on the passenger’s side and the driver’s seat occupied by Castiel. It’s a good thing I have my hood up; I love the kid, but I wouldn’t want to freak him out even more by seeing - well -  _ this _ . He climbs into the backseat, if hesitantly, but the thumbs-up I shoot him from just above the seat seems to calm him down.

 

His silence is surprising, but it’s probably just because he doesn’t want to say anything rude in front of Castiel.

 

That’s one big difference between me and Sam - he actually cares.

 

About other people, mostly, but I’d be lying if I said he really  _ ever _ slacked off. Kid’s got his heart set on going to Stanford. He’s always blabbering on about how what that test is really gonna put him through the ringer, how that one lesson totally boosted his chances, how he’s gotta keep up “at least a 3.9 GPA or else there’s no way I’ll get in!”

 

God, I love him.

 

Castiel introduces himself to Sam with an almost obnoxiously gentle voice. “My name is Castiel.”

 

“Sam.”

 

Castiel nods slightly in acknowledgement. He seems really good at this. “Sam. I’ll be driving you back home, and Dean will come with me.”

 

I hurriedly cover my face with my sleeves when he says it, knowing Sam will inevitably shoot me a look. My face is burning, and I feel guilty for having to hide. It’s not fair to my brother. It especially doesn’t seem fair to me, seeing as hearing him talk about his girly classes is the only part of the day I can actively look forward to and on the one day I really need it, I’m not freakin’ allowed.

 

Instead of voicing his concern in a way that insults Castiel, he chooses one that will insult me instead. “Wait, Dean actually has friends?”

 

I scoff, but then the truth of what he says hits me, and I stumble over my words. “Of course I have -  _ friends _ \- I have - don’t I - shut up, Sammy.”

 

He readjusts his arms, grumbles, “It’s Sam,” and then becomes quiet.

  
Silences like this between my brother and I are never comfortable.

 

“Bitch,” I mumble after a second.

 

There’s nothing. I notice Castiel’s eyebrows draw together, his eyes dulled with something that looks like a mixture of disapproval and confusion.

 

“Bitch,” I repeat, louder this time.

 

“...Jerk.”

 

Silences like this between me and my brother are never long.

 

As if somehow relieved, Castiel presses the key into the ignition, and I feel my heart beat faster as Baby roars to life. The cassette player automatically starts blasting AC/DC. I find that headbanging and singing along, like I usually do, physically hurts too much, so I settle for wiggling my toes in my shoes. Surprisingly, it’s really not any less satisfying.

 

I have to admit, I find Castiel’s blank stare a little bit disappointing. You can’t dress like the frickin’ King of the Dead and  _ not _ like AC/DC. I can see his lips moving slightly, but they’re not on time with the lyrics. I scoff silently. Whatever. It’s not what I expected, but I guess I’m not a fortune teller.

 

The drive home is free of conversation. Castiel parks in our driveway and turns off the car, then turns to look at me with concern in his eyes. “Are you going to be okay?”   
  
I nod as much as my sore neck allows. “Yeah. I’ve got Sammy, and my dad’ll be home any time. I’ll be okay.” He stays staring at me for a second more, examining my face, and then nods in approval. He gets out of the car without another word and begins to walk down the street. I guess his house is within walking distance, because he doesn’t really seem like the type to just pace for hours until he finds the right house. He seems more like he knows what he’s doing than I do.

 

Sam and I step out of the car. I take the keys from the slot and hear them clang together in my hand on the walk to the front door. As my fingers fumble around the knob, I realise that I’m alive because someone thought it would be fitting to stand up for me.   
  


Nobody’s ever done that before.


	2. mac n cheese (alternately: Miracles)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the brothers eat macaroni and cheese, basically.

They say miracles never happen twice. Now, I’m not a big proponent of miracles in the first place. Honestly, though, me being home right now and not in the ICU of the local hospital is pretty goddamn spectacular. And I have to owe it all to Castiel.

 

I can’t really remember much of anything from the fight, or even after it. It’s almost like a dream - it fades away as soon as it happens, but the cautious look on Sam’s face tells me that all of that was definitely real. I feel kinda bad for him. What sort of kid wants to have an older brother who always comes home with fresh wounds on his face? None, that’s what kind. Nobody wants to have to deal with that. And yet, here he is, and here I am, and we’re sitting at the kitchen table stealing awkward glances at each other.

 

After a while has passed, Sam clears his throat, and I look him straight in the eyes when he asks, “Hey, Dean? Do you know when Dad’s coming home?”

 

I feel pretty awful because I don’t have an answer. I never do. It’s been a few days since I even heard anything from Dad, and that was just him telling me to go buy some more food because he’d be back too late for dinner. I haven’t seen him in about a week, and because Sam sleeps more than I do it’s been longer than that for him. “No. But I promise you that he’ll come home. He always does.”

 

“Then how come he’s never here?” Sam grumbles under his breath, and as much as I want to pretend like I didn’t hear him, there’s a mixture between fear and anger growing in my chest and I leap to Dad’s defence and tell him that whenever he’s out of the house he’s just making money so we can keep putting food on the table and he should be more grateful. I don’t know why I defend the bastard when he’s done the two of us so much wrong. He hasn’t earned my respect. And besides, nothing is worth making Sammy upset.

 

The worst thing about talking to my little brother like that is the look of betrayal in his eyes after I speak. He doesn’t deserve this. He deserves a father that loves him and stays with him no matter what, because nothing is more important than he is. I wish Dad would understand that. I wish he could see how much everything he does hurts us. I wish I didn’t still love him despite everything he puts us through.

 

I hear the water boiling on the stove and hop up to stir around the noodles. A few more minutes pass in silence before I sprinkle the cheese and milk over the freshly drained pasta and serve it in two cracked bowls to me and my brother. “Eat up, bitch,” I say, twisting my voice up into a sarcastic French accent.

 

Sam can’t help but crack a smile as he says, “Bon appetit, jerk.” I smile back. It hurts too much to laugh.

 

After dinner, me and Sammy go to chip away at our schoolwork. The chemistry teacher’s website flashes an alert that there’s going to be a lab tomorrow, and I feel my heart instantly drop. That means I have to come in to school, which has never really been the best thing for me. You understand why, of course. It’s pretty gnarly when I decide to stick my ugly mug in that hellhole. It’s not all bad, though. Where else would I keep myself busy all day? And if it weren’t for that place, I wouldn’t have anyone to eat lunch with. At least at Hunter High I have Garth and Charlie to have my back.

 

I stop myself before I add Castiel to the list.

 

Hours pass and before I know it, the sun is gone and my clock is flashing  _ 12:30 _ . Now’s my time to put in my headphones and wait for the sound of the key in the door to signal that Dad is finally home.

 

It doesn’t come.


End file.
